You Could Get Outta Here
by Dumbledoor
Summary: Post-Breaking Dawn, a Mike and Jessica story in Mike's POV. Details the last week of summer.
1. Chapter 1

**_You Could Get Outta Here_ was heavily influenced by (besides the Twilight Saga) Joe Dunthorne's novel, _Submarine._ I am _not _Joe Dunthorne, just as I am _not _Stephenie Meyer. And, like the Twilight Saga, I do not own _Submarine_. I read the book; the idea stuck. I want to try writing in present tense.**

**And I want to use Stephenie Meyer's characters. They're my favorite :)**

**Besides, school is starting. Summer, I'm gonna miss you.**

**This will be Rated T. There may be bad words. There might be bad actions. There might even be bad grammar. I don't know; I'm making this up as I type.**

* * *

Devastation is in my heart. I think my legs might actually explode from too much walking. It's dark out. Black shapes block the moon. The streets have silence, unbroken by Forks' sleepers.

I throw the garter aside, letting the elastic get swallowed by the darkness, away from my sight. The thought of weddings make me scowl, and I have to keep walking just to get it off my mind.

All too soon, I am standing in front of Jess's house. I sigh. The one-story ranch house is right by the bank, where Mrs. Stanley works. It is also near my dad's store, Newton's Outfitters and Sporting Goods.

The store. Where Isabella Swan (Isabella Cullen?) and I used to work. Well, _I _still work there, but Bella would now be moving east, across the country, to New Hampshire. Dartmouth. She's married to Edward Cullen.

And me? I'm going to the nearest community college this fall. Nothing special. Not one single sports scholarship for me, no siree.

My grades took me a couple of miles from home, unlike Eric, whose grades took his ass to MIT.

I don't know how long I've been standing in front of the store, but I don't like it. It makes me feel girly, thinking of my friends and being jealous of Eric Yorkie.

I sigh again. What's wrong with being envious of Eric? He has a good future and a girlfriend (whom else was Katie Seymour, class salutatorian, supposed to date?).

_My _future is in a sports store. My girlfriend is obnoxious. It makes me so angry, how I can't help but love Jessica Stanley. Even as I think about her petite frame, her brown eyes, and her frilly dark hair, I want to shudder.

Suddenly, I hear a loud engine in the distance. The car is onviously expensive—the sounds are deep and smooth. I don't see any headlights.

The car zooms past me in record speed. I see almost nothing in the dark. Who drives over a hundred miles per hour, in almost total darkness, without lights on?

I head home.

Walking by Jess's house, I see her window is open. The moonlight shows that much.

I stop.

"Mike?" I turn to where the whisper came from.

The first thing I see is a blue blob. Her cell phone. Then it moves, and I see Jessica's face in front of me, looking at me blankly.

"Jess, what are you doing here?" I say.

"This is my house," she whispers.

"It's dark out, and kinda cold," I insist. She is wearing a loose shirt and shorts. I look at her legs, pale and smooth-looking.

"What are you doing here?" Jessica asks. She points the cell phone so I'd be in the light. Her screen's wallpaper is of a beach.

I shrug. "Just walking."

Jessica lowers her phone so she can see what I'm wearing. Dress shirt, black pants, shiny shoes.

"D'you wanna come in?" She motions to the open window. Her bedroom.

"Let's go." I take her hand.

- - -

"Don't make a sound," Jessica warns me as she pulls on my arm, plopping me down on her bed. The mattress does not creak, so we can move around without making much noise.

We sit in silence, waiting to see if anyone's awake.

Now the room is totally dark. I reach a hand to Jess's neck, guiding myself with her arm. Her T-shirt is big enough so I push the collar over her shoulder.

I swallow and breathe deep.

Okay, so I'm touching her shoulder, rubbing it a bit. What now?

I kiss her on her shoulder, and it is warm. I kiss her neck. Jessica does not move. She has become rigid. I feel her arms tight on her sides.

I want to kiss her more. I want to kiss _more_.

My hands rub on her sides, making up and down motions. Dad told me that if you give a girl a massage, she would do whatever you want.

I squeeze her forearms lightly. She exhales slowly, almost like a sigh.

"_Whhhooooooo..._"

I push the shirt's collar to its proper place, and I drag the sleeves over her shoulders, squeezing those too.

Then, I lever myself up with my knees and lean my body over hers, carefully pushing her down.

Her back hits the mattress. Jess sighs. I feel her minty breath in my mouth.

This time, she puts her hands on my face and pulls me to her.

- - -

Today is Sunday. I am helping my dad fix the Suburban.

"This thing breaks more than our Xbox," Dad huffs out, tinkering with the engine. He is leaning over, and the skin between his shirt and trousers is exposed. My dad is in his early forties, but he looks about fifty or so. His brown hair is close to graying at the roots, and his legs sag a bit. His face, though, looks surprisingly young. I have my mom's blond hair and blue eyes, but the rest I take after Dad, or so she says.

"Mike? You got the starter?" Dad is looking at me impatiently, hands on the edges of the car.

I hand him the starter and then help attach some of the cables. I'm no expert in cars, but I pretend to know a thing or two.

"So...where were you last night?" Dad asks. He sounds like he knows what I'll say next. He continues tinkering.

I blink. "I was over at Jess's house."

A pause. Dad twists the different colored cables, grunting and pulling.

"Did you use condoms?" he says. not looking up from his work. "Any type of birth control?"

"Right now, we're using abstinence," I say with a sigh.

"Oh. Well, when the time comes, be sure to use 'em." He is frowning. Dad is pitying me.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Stephenie Meyer owns the Twilight Saga**.

* * *

"So, I guess this is goodbye." Eric pats me awkwardly on my arm before searching through his pockets. This takes a while—his cargo shorts have twelve zippers, not counting his fly.

He hands me a photo.

"It's our picture during graduation," he says. He pushes his glasses up his nose. "I have my copy with me. Since you forgot your camera that day, I thought of giving you one."

In the picture, Eric and I are standing side by side, shoulders touching, showing our diplomas to the camera. The shiny vest on Eric's robe attracts the most flash, making it glow.

"Thanks," I say, pocketing the picture.

"Well," his voice squeaks high, "I should get going."

"Yeah." I lean on the other side of the door frame.

"Have a nice life, man." He steps back slowly, nodding as he descends the porch steps backwards.

"Yup."

"Enjoy the rest of your summer."

Enjoy your scholarship. Enjoy your shiny new car given to you by your proud parents. Enjoy Katie Seymour. Bye.

I go inside the house, letting the door shut behind me.

- - -

My arms hurt from supporting myself over Jess's body. This couch is too small.

"Mmmh," Jess mumbles. It feels good against my lips. I put more pressure on my burning biceps.

I am kissing Jess because it feels good. I am kissing her like _this_ because it feels good too.

But my arms give out, and I slump my weight over Jessica's tiny body.

"Ugh, Mike, you're heavy." She pushes me and I roll myself off the sofa, landing softly on the floor. I lean my head back to her legs.

"I'm 140 pounds," I say. "That's not so bad."

"But I'm 105. You'd crush me."

We've had this discussion before, so I end it before she blows up on me.

The stereo is playing at a very low volume.

"Mike?"

"Yeah," I say.

"I'm sorry." She sits beside me. I wrap an arm around her neck; she does too.

We kiss. I feel her tongue in my mouth. I open my eyes. Her skin is flushed. I close my eyes. I pull her on top of me.

- - -

"You think we're ready for a long-distance relationship?" Jessica asks, tugging on the sleeves of my shirt. She is sitting on my lap, and we are on the couch.

My eyes never leave her face.

"I want to try," I tell her.

She looks at me. She is concerned, worried, skeptical.

"You know," she says, "I've been thinking..." Her fingers knot in my hair.

"Yeah?" I realize this must be what a masseuse feels like. I make a small sound at the back of my throat.

"Well...we only have a week left before I go to California," she tells me, not looking at my face. She pulls on my hair softly, gaining another groan from me.

"What about it?" I say.

"We should go somewhere together. Somewhere far."

"Like a road trip?"

"Yes." She knots her fingers at the base of my neck.

I think about it. A whole week with only Jessica and me, and a new part of the world.

"Where should we go?" I ask.

"California."

"Aren't you going to college there?"

"Yeah, but we can go to San Francisco or something. I've never been there." Jessica bites her lip. This show of nervousness is attractive.

"Okay." I nod. "San Francisco."

"Five days in San Francisco, two days on the road. We leave tomorrow." She kisses me lightly on the lips, then stands up to head upstairs. "I'm gonna go pack."

- - -

I brought one pack of condoms. Assuming none of them break, we have twelve chances.

I do thirty push-ups.

My cell phone rings. I pick it up from the table.

"Hello?"

"It's Jessica."

"Oh, hi Jess." My suitcase is brimming with crinkly shirts and pants.

"I just wanted to know which car we were going to use."

"Oh. Yeah, yeah, me too." I have to remember boxers and socks.

"So...yours, then? I'll pay for gas," Jess says.

"Okay." I remember the Suburban's not-so-mint condition. "I'll borrow my dad's car," I add. He has a Hyundai Sonata.

"That's good. So tomorrow morning at seven?"

I wince. That's pretty early but I tell her I'll be there. Anything for you, Jess.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Stephenie Meyer owns the Twilight Saga.**

* * *

It is now 7:30. I am running frantic.

"Mom! Where are Dad's car keys!" I clearly remember placing them on top of the box of Cheerios. But I look, and I only see Special K. Did I put it by the milk carton?

Inside the fridge, I find the keys sitting snugly between the cheese slices.

I look at the clock. 7:37

- - -

"Did you even _bother_ to set your alarm clock?" Jess grumbles while we are in the car. In my defense, she didn't call me to confirm our plans.

We are now driving south. It is 8:00. All I see are trees. Trees and cement.

"So...here we are," I say, tapping the steering wheel. Jessica fastens her seat belt.

"Yeah," she sounds relaxed. "We should get there sometime tonight, if we drive fast."

Yippee. "When do you want to take over the wheel?"

"When you're ready to collapse."

"Okay."

She puts her feet over the dash. Which reminds me, I didn't have any music with me, and reception was probably bad along the interstate, especially in my dad's slightly old Hyundai.

I look at Jess. Her eyes are closed.

"Jess?"

"Yes?" I try not to smile at the rhyme.

"Did you—by any chance—bring some CDs?"

She opens her eyes and sits straight. "Actually, I burned a couple. Just some mixed CDs. Here, lemme get them." She reaches behind for her large purse and rummages through it.

I was hoping she would say no. But I will never tell her this.

To my horror, the disc she puts in is markered "_Jack Johnson/ Death Cab_".

Jess reclines in her seat. The CD player makes a whirring sound, meaning it is processing the disc.

My eyes twitch. I inhale sharply.

Some acoustic-y type guitar intro plays.

Ignore the music, Mike. Ignore it.

"_Do you remember when we first met?  
I sure do.  
It was some time, in early September..."_

Oh, hell no. This is not the type of music to drive to, especially when I have hours of lonely road ahead of me. Maybe if Jessica is asleep... No, she's looking out the window. Her fingers are tapping against her thigh.

_"You play me boogey-woogey;  
I play you love songs.  
You'd say we're playing house.  
Now you still say we are..."_

I stare past the windshield, hear past the music, and concentrate on getting a mile closer.

A mile away from home, a mile closer to destination. Every freakin' tire revolution.

- - -

How many songs does Death Cab for Cutie have? Why do they all sound sad?

I think Jess picked the saddest of the bunch, because no band can write about depression _that_ much. Unless they were zombies. If they were, Eric's never told about them to me.

I frown. All I see is road. Besides me, Jess stares out the window. It's drizzling.

I clear my throat. "Jess? How far away are we?"

She looks at me when she should be looking at the MapQuest printout.

"Six hours, maybe less."

I look at the CD player. Track 18 is over, and—

"Jess, switch the CD. It's over."

She fishes two silver discs from the back.

"Which one do you want first? Coldplay or whatever?"

"What's whatever?"

"Mixed songs. Random, really."

"Okay, put it on," I say.

- - -

"What song is this?" I ask her after a while. The song is soothing—if you're into that kind of music.

"You wouldn't know it." I can tell she is trying to sleep. Her back is facing me and she sounds annoyed.

"Who's it by?"

"The Shins," she murmurs. "I'll drive in two hours."

I stop asking questions.

- - -

After half an hour, I stop at the gas station. I pay almost forty dollars for a full tank. Life is cruel.

Back in the car, another song starts. I strain my ears.

It can't be...

"Modest Mouse!" I say in awe. I look at Jessica, but she is asleep. "It really is." She remembers my favorite band.

I smile.

"_I backed my car into a cop car, the other day_," I sing along. "_Well he just drove off sometime's life's okay_..."

- - -

Jessica is driving. We ate—Burger King—before switching positions. It is getting dark.

"Look at that sunset," Jessica says softly.

I look to the right. The sky is pink and orange and purple. Strawberries and oranges and bruises.

"It's nice." I yawn. I want to cover what little sunlight is shining on the window and snooze.

"We're in San Francisco, you know," she says sweetly. "We'll be in the hotel in a few minutes."

Yeah, a hotel is fancy. That was my two weeks' salary, and of course Jess chipped in her share.

"Well," I cough. "That was fast."

She rolls her eyes.

* * *

**I don't know about this chapter. It's pretty pointless.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Stephenie Meyer owns the Twilight Saga**.

* * *

Our room has one queen-size bed. It is a medium-size room, one that fits our budget.

When the hotel-person-who-carries-your-bags-for-you carried our bags for us, I gave him five dollars for tip. He nodded and left.

Now I look around the room. Cream-colored walls, two desks, bed, dressers, TV, bathroom door.

"I gotta pee," I say.

The bathroom is white tiled. Shower and tup combo, sink, toilet. Okay.

I return to the room. Jessica is sleeping. The TV is on, but it is muted.

I look at our bags. Where did I put the condoms?

Six are in my backpack. The other six are in the car, inside the glove compartment.

Jessica has two suitcases. I bet they're filled with feminine stuff. Like deodorant.

All is quiet expect for the hum of the air conditioner.

I plop myself beside Jessica. Not tonight, then.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**Stephenie Meyer owns the Twilight Saga.**

* * *

Our official first day starts with a drive through the Golden Gate Bridge.

"We passed it last night," Jess says, "but now we're going in it."

Yeah. It _is_ pretty amazing. So much _different_ than other bridges. If you look closely you see the cables—oh, we crossed it. The orange structure is behind us now, like it isn't there at all. That took, what, a minute? Two minutes?

"Isn't it amazing?" she exclaims.

"Sure is."

The rest of the day is not worth mentioning. We ate, we walked, we drove. Then we headed back to the hotel.

- - -

"Oooh! Come on! Let's check out the restaurant." Jessica pulls me to the dining restaurant located inside the hotel. The dark red walls and wood furniture look like big money, but I shrug the unease off. Not a lot of people are here, just some old couples.

"A table for two?" The guy in the podium says. He is young—about our age. I wonder how he got this job.

"Yes, thank you," Jessica answers. He ushers us to a small square table in the corner. It is the farthest table from the restrooms.

Jess smiles at the guy. His name tag says "Kirk".

"Your waiter will be right out," Kirk says. He flashes Jess a smile, and I realize that he wants to piss me off.

"Thanks." Jess smiles back.

Kirk the jerk. Kirk the jerk who works.

"Great place, huh?" I say.

She is looking over at Kirk standing at his podium. "Definitely."

"It makes me wanna puke," I say.

Jessica sighs, smiling wide. She has her dream-face on.

"Didn't know you had a thing for brown-haired guys," I mutter.

"What?" She blinks.

"Nothing."

Jessica clears her throat. I look over at the menu sitting in front of me.

"So, do you want to go to the museum?" she suggests.

"No." The fish looks good.

"Walk around the city?"

"Nope." I am downing her energy.

"What about the park? The receptionist said—"

"Nah."

"Mall?" Her voice is extremely loud.

"No thanks," I say, sure on the half-pound chicken with mashed potatoes.

Kirk comes back, smiling politely, holding a pad and pen.

"It looks like I'll be your server tonight." His face is apologetic, but he is mainly looking at Jess. "I'm Kirk, and tonight's special..."

I zone him out. He is talking to Jess. I stick my tongue out at him. He doesn't notice.

"May I start you off with some drinks? Appetizers?"

"Two cokes," I say clearly, ordering for both of us. Kirk frowned quickly, but shrugged and wrote something down.

"Iced tea," Jess adds. "No appetizers." Her smile is short.

That's right. Straight to the main course.

"Are you ready to order?" Kirk asks, again looking at Jessica. He is smirking.

Kirk smirked.

Jess smiles shyly. "Actually, can we have a few mi—"

"Half-pound chicken with mashed potatoes," I say. "Fries on the side." I hand him the menu.

For a second, they both stare at me. Then, "Okay," Kirk nods. "And you, miss?"

Jess is glaring at me like, _Who do you think you are?_

But she looks at Kirk, smiles politely, and orders tonight's special.

Because I ordered two orders of coke when I could've just had a free refill, Jess said that, of course, I needed to go to the bathroom half an hour later. Me and my stupidity.

"I am positively bursting," I say before I dash for the restroom.

On the way, I see Kirk giving me a hard look. At first I reckon he's gay. Then I realize he is angry at me. Jealous, probably. Why not? I got the girl, and he's our _server_.

My bathroom break is taking a little longer than I think. That was a lot of coke, and Kirk just kept it coming. The hand dryers aren't working, so I have to wait for the single cubicle to open to get the toilet paper.

Talk about nachos.

- - -

When I do get back, I see Kirk talking to Jess. He is standing, as if he will give the check any second now, but Jess just had a quick question to ask.

I am pretty far away, but I see Jess face down on her lap.

She shakes her head.

As in, No, my life isn't as horrible as you see it, Kirk?

I don't think I'm ready to face them. How'd _you _like to act all cool and collected in front of people—strangers, really—who are clearly conspiring against you?

They continue talking.

I can't walk up there knowing they had something in common. Suddenly, Kirk's curly brown hair and tanned skin look daunting.

Turning a right, I head for the elevators to our room.

I am mental enough to look back to see Jess laughing. Me and my stupidity.

- - -

The next morning, I wake up with a crinkling sound in my palm.

A note from Jessica:

_"Went to the museum. Be back later."_

I throw the note aside and order pizza.

* * *

**OK, I'm pretty sure I know what I'll write next. Just a couple more chapters... I've been typing for two hours.**

* * *


	6. Chapter 6

**Stephenie Meyer owns the Twilight Saga**.  
Okay, like I said: Rated T. I'm not good on the whole graphic content thing, so things won't be so mature-sounding. I'll do this fast. I only have about an hour for this chapter.

* * *

When Jess returns that evening, she has a grin on her face. I flip the channels.

"Hi," she says breathlessly. She coughs a bit and heads for the bathroom.

I hear the toilet being flushed. I hear the sink going. Then I hear shuffling. She must be changing.

She sits on the bed, a few feet away from me.

"What are you watching?"

I show her the infomercial on the screen.

Her smile turns into an uneasy grin. Yeah, I tell her in my mind, these kinds of movies turn me on too.

Jessica sighs. Her face is red. I drop the remote, grab her face, and kiss her.

I want to be honest, so I'll say it: I push her down the mattress. Jess makes a muffled noise, but I'm too out of control to analyze it—the muffled noise, I mean. I think it's a moan.

Only the TV is on. It is like a horror movie.

Jessica is beneath me. It feels good to take things literal.

Her face is a mask of fear and excitement: I take it all in. My erection makes me uncomfortable. Jess squirms.

"Mike, _no_," she scolds; she is looking at my shorts.

I kiss her. She kisses me back. "It'll be wonderful and you know it."

She looks up at me with uncertainty. Then, hesitantly, she pulls my shirt over my head.

And I see her without her shirt and pants on.

"D'you have condoms?" She flings her her bra across the room.

I reach in my jeans pocket. I am prepared.

Jess takes a deep breath. I kiss her hard on the mouth.

My journey to being a man lasts eight minutes.

- - -

That's right, readers, be amazed. Last night can now be remembered as _the_ night.

I trace Jess's forehead, trying to ignore her naked form. Hmm... She has a birthmark on her hip.

I try to remember how it happened. It all seems like a dream. Jessica had her eyes tightly closed. She kept saying: "Mmhu..."

Did I cry? Oh God, please let it not be true. I shake my head.

_Loud_, animalistic breathing. Sweaty bodies. Curious hands. Wandering mouths. Oh yes.

Jess stirs in her sleep. I don't know if it would bw weird for her if she woke up and found me staring at her.

I shower and head downstairs to eat breakfast. Last night—_the_ night—got me hungry.

- - -

I return to the room and find Jess dressed in jeans and a shirt. She's cleaned up. She is picking up clothes from the floor, muttering to herself.

I plop down on the bed. Wonder what shows are on?

Cash Cab. Easy Entertaining. Paid Advertising. Cribs. Gossip Girls.

"Bleh," I say.

I obseve Jess. She looks...confronted.

"What's runnin' through your head today?" What secrets do you keep inside your thick unruly hair?

She stands defiantly in front of the television. "Mike, I have to say something."

"Can you move to the left a bit?"

"I cheated on you."

I blink. She waits, nervous. Her hands are shaking slightly.

"No you didn't," I state calmly. Jess? Cheat on me? Pssh.

Jess blushes. She is fuming. It reminds me of the night. Her eyes water and she looks toward the windows.

"I'm just telling you what happened," she says quietly.

I say nothing. Her hallucination will pass. She must be high off of something. Maybe there's a chemical in the condom that makes girls woozy in the morning. Jess walks to the windows, gazing at the scenery below.

I never did get to see that view.

"Kirk took me to the museums yesterday," Jess says. "We had fun. He's so smart and funny, and we have a lot in common..." She looks at me, a sad smile on her face. "He really has a way with adventure."

Those pancakes I ate are crawling their way up my esophagus. The pancakes of shame.

All of a sudden, I hear Jess crying. It is loud.

"Oh, Mike." She shakes her head. "I let him touch me. And I just..."

My hands grip the bedsheet like it was what's-his-name.

"W-what—" I clear my throat. "What do you mean?" I look at my lap.

"He gave me oral sex."

"Hah?" My face twists into a despair.

"It's sort of like a kiss, except it's, um, down—"

"NO! Don't _tell_ me what you did. I _know _what that is!" Okay, maybe I have no idea what oral sex was, but it sounds exotic.

"It just happened." She cries louder.

"Oh, don't tell me: behind the nude sculptures in the art museum?" Pictures of Jess and Kirk flash in my mind. Pictures of Jess from last night.

Jess is sitting on the carpet, arms hugging her knees. "I couldn't help it. Things were so—"

"I thought I was the first one to do these kinds of things to you."

Pathetic.

"It's difficult to explain," she chokes out. "You and me were arguing a lot, and it was like you didn't want me anymore!" She is standing, hands stretched, like she is lifting barbells. "D'you have any idea how shitty I feel? What this is putting me through?"

"You probably don't feel as fucked up as I do." I surprise myself by using a curse so calmly. But then my voice rises a pitch. "Did you think that maybe I just hate museums and history? That I'd rather stay in this room with you, instead of seeing all kinds of stuff in San Fran_cis_co!" I stand because I don't like being shorter than her. "Why the hell did you go with the jerk?"

Her eyes flash. "Because _you _wouldn't go with me! You won't do anything for anyone unless it benefits you." She sneers. "I bet you only went on this trip for sex."

What! Didn't we just go to the big bridge?

"What else were we supposed to _do_?" It's not like the museums of San Francisco would help us be adults.

Jessica blushed. "We could've done...more."

I scowl. "What's more than sex?" The idea intrigues me, but I'm too angry to think. But I'm going to have to think about that later: what's more enjoyable than several orgasms?

She's fuming. "You're a fucking ass, you know that? Kirk was right—"

"So you share all your personal problems with Kirk now?"

"I'm sure as hell not going to confide in you!" She pushes on my chest. Hard.

"But you come back and sleep with me?" I shout incredulously.

This keeps her quiet for a second. Then, "I wanted to prove to myself that _you _were worth forgetting _him_, Mike," she whispers softly.

I realize that I don't want to be here.

I grab my car keys and go to the door.

Jess runs after me all the way to the underground parking lot. _All the way_.

"Mike! Where are you going?" Her voice is frantic. I unlock the doors. It sounds like reloading a rifle.

"Out," I say. But where? Back to Forks?

Yes. It would feel good, and so easy, to leave her. Then she would beg for me to take her.

I open the door.

Jess grabs hold of my arm and I face her. Tears stain her cheeks.

"Please," she begs.

Her brown curls are a mess. It looks like sex hair.

Her eyes are liquid.

My stomach feels warm.

Brain is hammering, sawing, _thinking_ of anything but this situation.

Ears burn hot.

Fingers cold.

Neck sweaty.

And I feel her tongue in my mouth. My left arm goes around her waist, dropping the keys to the ground. My right hand knots in her hair, pushing her head against mine.

Her hands claw at my chest, seeming as if to rip my clothes right there.

Our tongues touch. It is like a sword fight. Whoever shoves his or her throat down the other's throat wins. Jess is a good goal keeper.

"Nnnh," she says.

Is this really happening?

Jess pushes me inside the car. My right ear hits the emergency brake.

Ouch. Yes, it is happening.

She's on top of me, kissing me so hard I think she ate my lips.

We slide further into the car, closing the door when we are inside.

Our heartbeats are synchronized to 120 a minute. Our breathing os over forty decibels.

Jessica Stanley is the most beautiful woman in the world. She is sitting on top of my stomach. The gearshifter is between my legs. Her hands are on my chest.

The glove compartment is to my right. It holds six Trojans.

We make a _Titanic _movie moment. I even press Jess's palm on the foggy window by the backseat, and yes, we did it in the back too.

Q: There are six condoms. You decide to have break-up sex. Assuming you used one for each _session_, how many condoms are left?

A: Two.

I think I have a general idea of what it means to fuck someone's brains out.

- - -

I am sitting in the driver's seat, driving at thirty five miles per hour. All windows are open. I am the only one in the car—except for Jack Johnson, and in another two songs, Death Cab for Cutie. Jess said this was the only CD I could take with me.

She is staying at the hotel for another two days.

I'll be in Forks tonight.

In the distance, I see the top of the Golden Gate Bridge.

According to some show in the Travel Channel, more suicides are attempted on the Golden Gate than any other place on the planet.

- - -

"_Sometimes I think this cycle never ends,  
We slide from top to bottom then we turn and climb again..."_

I can almost remember all the lyrics. The CD has replayed four times now. I feel the weather getting colder.

I see trees and road.

"_And it seems by the time that I have figured what it's worth,  
The squeaking of our skin against the steel has gotten worse."_

* * *

**OK. I think I'm going to take a break for a bit. Three hours and twenty five minutes. Go me!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Stephenie Meyer owns the Twilight Saga.**

* * *

It has been a week. College has started.

Jess came back two days later than me. I don't want to know _how_. Mom said she saw an unfamiliar Honda at the Stanleys' that day.

Anyway, she's in California now.

I want to skip several chapters of emotional healing and get straight to being healed.

I want to fast forward this movie, if I were a movie, and get to the part where I have an epiphany and say: "Hey! I don't need Jessica in my life! Things wouldn't be the same, but I can make it through!"

But I know I won't be saying this soon. I don't even call her by her full name that often.

Or maybe I want to rewind _way_ back, and _not_ mess things up so bad.

I sit inside Dad's Hyundai. My hands are on top of the gray steering wheel.

I shouldn't drive with my mind in such turmoil, but I do it anyway. I put the key in the ignition and cruise.

Jessica's CD is still inside. I turn the radio off.

I pass by Jess's house. I pass by my parents' store. Through the clear glass window, I see two orange vests—uniforms—close together. Mom and Dad. Today is a slow day.

They are standing by the ski mask section. I know they are doing something unprofessional, but I push on the gas and go fifty.

I go sixty.

The streets are near empty. Everyone is at work. Kids are at home, enjoying their last day of vacation. I am skipping class.

Gripping the wheel tighter, I reach eighty miles per hour.

I wonder if the car will break. No, everything runs smooth.

Jessica is in college now. In California. I will not get to see her until the holidays. Even then, I don't think we'll see each other much.

Eric Yorkie and Katie Seymour have been together for seven months.

Edward Cullen and Isabella Swan married this summer.

I am skipping class. Professor Eade will not care.

I push on a hundred. It's scary. I'm bordering La Push.

My parents are not pressuring me in college. Dad says that no matter what, I'm going to get his job managing the store. It's written on his will.

Somnambulism is another word for sleepwalking.

I haven't talked to Jess for a week.

I hear police sirens coming from the side, but I pass it to quickly to know where it's coming from. The wails grow quiet.

Then I see a cruiser chasing after me. It was hidden in the side.

I am angry. Blue and red.

I am scared.

I pull over the shoulder lane.

- - -

With my rear view mirrow, I see Chief Swan walking toward me. I open my window.

"Mike Newton." He seems embarrassed. "License and registration, please." He shakes his head disappointingly.

A sinking feeling in my stomach.

I open the glove compartment in the passenger's seat. My insides hurt. There are two unused condoms sitting there. I reach past it and give Chief Swan my license and registration. He looks over them slowly.

He sighs. "Okay... I don't want to put a dent on your record, since you're a fairly new driver." He hands my documents back. "So I'm letting you off with a warning. You were going over a hundred, son: don't do it again."

Then he walks off. His shoulders are slumped, and I see him shaking his head.

That is one career choice you won't see _me_ taking. Not when you look so tired all the time—tired, unsure, lonely.


	8. Chapter 8

**Stephenie Meyer owns the Twilight Saga.**

* * *

I am passing by a thicket of trees. This is where I used to turn to go to Forks High. The high school's year starts tomorrow, a Thursday.

I turn right.

I park in my usual spot. The parking lot has several unfamiliar cars.

I stop thinking, letting the thoughts come to me.

I get outside the car, pretending I am back in high school. It is senior year, when my problems are nonexistent. Or is that junior year? Sophomore?

Freshman. It is freshman year in high school. I am looking at the square buildings with awe. I remember Jess and me being nervous. The older kids made fun of my braces. Jess said they'd go away—I did not know if she meant my braces or the older kids. My teeth are now perfectly straight.

I am sitting on a table. This is the same table where I first asked Bella out to dinner.

Misogynistic means impartial or biased against women.

Bella had said I should ask Jess instead.

Thanks for the lovely advice, Mrs. Cullen. I hope you give birth to freaks.

I narrow my eyes and harden my face the best I can.

The sky is cloudy. All is quiet.

The ground is leaves and mud.

I channel my anger to one Isabella Cullen. I do not think. I just feel this maddening rage to hurt something.

And then it rains. Seriously, it's pouring after a few minutes. The sky is gray.

It is there, in the heavy and cold rain, that I let myself cry.

Even boys cry, right? Besides, my tears—and I _think_ I'm shedding only one at a time—will be camouflaged by raindrops. My face is red because of the cold. I am shaking because I am soaked, and I might get pneumonia.

Yeah, and when I open my eyes, I'll see Jess standing in front of me.

I rub on my eye sockets, sniffling and choking. My clothes are wet, even my boxers.

I open my eyes, blinking fast.

Holy messiah jambalaya.

A lone figure is standing a few yards away from the office building. The figure is still, getting lost in the wind and water swirling in the air.

From where I am sitting, I see the figure has long brown hair.

I walk to the girl. Fast. She doesn't notice me; she is facing the other direction. Water splished and splashed, and my feet sloshed through mud.

"Jessica!" I shout when I am several feet away from her.

Jess jumps in shock, and when she snaps her face in my direction, she looks scared.

Her face has a pained expression, as if she doesn't know whether to cry or scream. She is in a t-shirt and jeans. Good thing her bra has padding.

"Mike," she sobs. Jessica covers her mouth with a hand. She shakes her head in a "no" motion.

I walk closer. She doesn't move away.

I don't know what to say.

"I..." I say. It would be wrong to kiss her now. I have to remind myself that.

"Mike," Jess tries again. "I'm so—" She sobs some more, and this time she falls to her knees, muddying her jeans, and she crumples to the ground in front of me. Her body shakes with sobs. Jess covers her face with her arms, her fingers pulling her hair.

I stand frozen. It would be wrong to kiss her.

Jess, no, don't lie down on the ground. No. Don't do that.

She lies on her side. It looks like she is snuggling up to the dirt.

It would be wrong to kiss her.

It would be wrong to kiss her.

Jess, this is not you. You have college. I have college. It's raining. You're supposed to be in California.

I lower myself to the ground, lying just behind her. It's like my heart is magnetized to her body, and I feel it pounding in my chest, aching to jump out.

I am a big C, she is a little c.

"Tell me you hate me," she says. Her voice is hoarse. She is trying to sound louder than the rain.

I put an arm over her waist.

"Say it," she orders. I bury my face in her thick hair.

"I hate you," I say. "I hate you for staying with him. I hate you for sleeping with me after the same bastard gave you an oral. I hate you, Jess." I kiss her hair. "Probably for a long time."

The rain has gotten worse. Fat drops splat on our skin. I cover Jess's cheek with my hand. "You're face is cold," I tell her.

She rubs her face against my palm. Her other cheek is probably getting scratched in the mud.

"He's gone now," she says. "He said..."

Aposiopesis is a sudden break in speaking, as if the reader does not wish to continue.

Kirk the jerk. Kirk the jerk who works. I feel like iron, cold and heavy.

Jess kisses my palm. I wish we could get sucked into the mud, disappear from the world together. I don't want to deal with what's-his-name. I don't want to deal with guilt and anger and forgiveness, regardless who's feeling whichever one.

"I don't want to forgive you," I admit.

"You don't have to."

"But I can't let you leave me."

"Then I won't." Her teeth softly bite my wrist.

"Jess, I'm sorry," I say. My voice is dead.

"I forgive you," she said. Her voice chimes like a bell.

I know that I will forgive her for what she's done, but right now I just want to be with her. Somehow, holding her was keeping my feelings at bay.

I shudder because it is cold. My cheeks are sodden with rain.

Big C, little c.

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

**Stephenie Meyer owns the Twilight Saga.**

* * *

When I wake, it is 7:30.

I think about my dream from last night: I had come home from a stressful day at work, and Jess greets me with a mind-blowing kiss. She is in sweatpants and a T-shirt. Her hair is wet.

Best goddamn dream.

When I came home yesterday, wet and cold, Mom threw a fit. She said I looked sick. She told me to shower and sleep.

Jess told me I can take as long as I want to forgive her. She leaves this morning.

Statistics class starts in two hours. I have an hour and a half to get ready.

Mom is waiting downstairs in the kitchen. She is dressed in her PJs.

"Come get some breakfast, hun," she says, motioning to the pancakes on the table. She kisses my cheek. I try to smile. She sits across.

The buttermilk pancakes are delicious. _Muy delicioso_.

I tell this to Mom, but her face is serious and sad.

Her hands reach out, but she stops herself. "What happened yesterday?"

I spear my fork through the pancakes. I dunk the whole thing into the puddle of syrup in the middle of my plate.

"I'm...not sure." I tell her what happened last night, every single detail I can possibly remember, right down to the color of Jess's shirt when it is wet. Maroon.

Mom takes all this in calm. When I am finished, she asks one question: "Why do you _think _you don't want to forgive Jessica?"

I think for a moment. Because I'll look like an easy wuss? Because she betrayed me? Because I got hurt?

"I just don't think she can be trusted anymore, you know?"

Mom smiles. "It's okay to be scared—"

"I'm not scared."

She looks at me like she's saying, Of course not, honey. She smiles and says, "I meant, it's okay to be _worried_—"

"I'm not worried either."

"Will you stop lying to your mother?" she snaps.

"Sorry," I mutter.

Mom clears her throat. "Now, it's okay to be scared and worried about the future, you understand? Perfectly alright. Nothing wrong about that. In fact, being cautious about what's to come..."

Periphrasis is the use of superfluous words to add to someone's point.

As Mom prattles on about being the normalcy of being a dandy about the future, I think about what Jess could be thinking right now.

Does she expect I'll forgive her? Is _that_ why she's leaving so easily? Because she knows I'll come to her someday?

Or is she assuming things are over between us, and that when she leaves, it'll be easier to move on?

Is she unsure of the future? Would she leave me in the past?

If only I knew.

I look at the clock. It is eight.

"I'm going out." I stand and walk outside, getting hit with an overcast sky and humid air.

Yup, Forks is still Forks. Glad to know nothing's changed much.

I breathe in the cool air.

- - -

When I leave for class today, I know that I have to at least pretend to forget Jess. I'll do it for myself.

Because, let's face it: I'm young. I just started college. I'm turning nineteen in a few months. It's not like I'm going to die tomorrow. If I do, then at least I'll know I'm not expecting too high to be disappointed with life.

I am grabbing my car keys from the refrigerator. I take a granola bar in there too; I like my granola bars cold.

I head outside. I put on a jacket.

Start the car. Head for the freeway. Get lost in your thoughts.

What do _I _expect? I'll ditch class and go to her, and tell her how I feel?

Because I can _see_ it all happening, can _imagine_ myself making a grand gesture to let Jess know she'll be mine always.

I've approached a red light. I stop.

My fingers itch to take out the note from my wallet.

The piece of paper rests between my money, waiting to be delivered.

A few simple lines, already prepared in scribbled handwriting:

"_To my love and lovely Jess,  
My damsel in distress,  
I'll be your chivalrous knight.  
_—_Your one forgiving Mike"_

Yes, I've thought about being theatrically poetic. But that's just not me. The note will stay hidden.

So, for _real_ this time: Am I going to contact Jess and try to get her back as my girlfriend?

No.

I'm going to live my life; she's going to live hers.

Would we be better together? I don't know. And right now I don't care.

Class starts in thirty minutes. Professor Engel's class has over a hundred students.

I'm not ready to go steady. Not now, not yet.

Traffic is getting heavier. I see more buildings.

We were fated to be separated.

Jess is in California. I'm at Washington. I press on the gas and go.

This is where I leave you,

—M Newton—

PS The truth often rhymes.

* * *

**I'll write an epilogue later, maybe. Now I'm going to start correcting my spelling mistakes.**


End file.
